Veni, Vidi, Vici
by cybErdrAgOn
Summary: How long can one man-child survive against the combined wrath of the world threatening to engulf him? What if he could simply...give up? One-shot Harry fic


Veni, vidi, vici

It is Saturday night as I sit outside, catching drops of water dripping from the gargoyles on my hand. A chill wind grazes the grounds, carrying fragmented messages from worlds far away, but never far enough, not for me. I strain to hear the words drifting through the air, but I can never quite catch them as they tumble playfully on the breeze. 

They are all far, far, away from the desolate village in which I await the coming of the foe, alone but not powerless. The mansions have been empty for months after the last raid; this is where He will return, snake-like nostrils dilating with the prospect of a kill, scarlet eyes glowing with anticipation. 

He is coming for me.

Just as my destiny will be forever intertwined with his, so are our lives. It has been told over and over how "neither can survive while the other lives". I have knowledge the enemy is desperate to gain, and unlike physical objects, thoughts are mine and mine only. As long as I breathe with a conscious effort, He will not obtain a shred of information from my mind.

But while the water escapes my cupped hand in halting trickles, so I remember that none of this will matter soon enough, perhaps even in days. The past few months have witnessed the falling of a fourth Rome, so to speak, and the collapse of a wizarding empire. At the impending signals of defeat, I was rushed here and spent the past few weeks training in preparation for the Final Battle. And then…then I was left with nothing but a wand and a bed, no person but the shadow that follows me wherever I wander. Nothing has come through for days, and no one has made a negligible effort.

They have not deserted me, though; I refuse to succumb to Voldemort, yes, Voldemort's tricks. Nor are they dead, for how else could I sense the phrases echoing in the air, voiced exactly like them? The voices cannot be heard, no, only somehow felt as warm, reassuring vibrations coming from them. It is a part of what I am going to fight for. I am going to fight for them, for Dumbledore, Ron, Hermione, and everyone else who has lived and died for me.

I step out from beneath the roof's overhang and gaze into a puddle slowly forming by the sidewalk, a strand of wet hair falling across my face. Staring at the gently rippling water surface, I see nothing. It is a dead, isolated pocket of water to which a little something is added occasionally and a little something leaves simultaneously.

That is, until I notice shaded green eyes reflected back at me.

Not quite as clear as my own, they are nevertheless the remnants of my soul, searching for justice and wondering what exactly the truth is. Yet the muddy tint of the water cast over any reflection laces them with darkness. Even my eyes are no longer what they once were; little of the innocence and light remains, since they have been robbed during the war. A war will bring out the best in some, and the worst in others.

Snape was a man with much weighing upon his heart, I had soon grown to realize, and grudgingly, true respect for him grew. How many others could face Him weekly, or even monthly, and fool him every time? It was a question I pondered frequently in the few days after everyone left, and my final answer was "none".

None. As much as it hurt to admit it, I cannot think of another man alive who had both the magical powers and the mental strength-Dumbledore was incapable of stooping so low, my father, well, my father was just too happy, and everyone else just couldn't do it. I owe him something now, and it is a debt that I will never be able to repay.

There is no way I'm going to live through this.

Sure, they've all told me that I would win, it would be all over in seconds. But it's not. He's too powerful, and when I faced him in the past, did I defeat anyone? No, I barely managed to escape each time. I lower my head and walk back underneath the roof to sit on a bench, and I know that there is an odd expression on my face, but I can't tell what. All I do know is that I look like someone ordinary and unfeeling now, with none of the false confidence I projected when I first came. Yet fear is not the right word; nor is anxiety. 

The word is numb. More than anything else, I am an empty shell equipped with a wand, the sacrifice for the good of the world. I do not worry about my future, because it has been Foretold that I will not be having one. I am not concerned about the end of the war; either fork in the road leads to a world that knows no war. In short, nothing I see, hear, or touch matters. Nothing matters at all, where I journey.

Then why does something still remind me that I care about the future, or that I care about the others? I clench my fists at my side tightly until the knuckles are deathly pale in contrast to my tanned, scarred hands. It's utterly illogical, though logic can be despicable and twisted, and I don't want to care.

"I don't want to care," I mutter darkly, a note of trepidation in my voice. But no one listens or responds; I have "friends" only in my head. 

Out in the rain, which has since then turned into a steady drizzle, a white figure glides into the town, forcing aside the very droplets of water falling from the sky. She is made of light, a gentle glow in the twilight with shadows for features and mists for a straight ivory dress. Startled, I gawk at her, but without seeing past the confines of my own mind.

"You do want to care." Her voice is soft but strong, even strong enough for me to blink and shatter the wall before my eyes. And I recognize her, but not like this…

Before I have a chance to question, she interrupts again. "Tell me now that you do want to care. Because you do." Like mist, her figure quivers in breeze, and she whispers, now with a certain degree of urgency, "Tell me now."

Still in shock, I nod dumbly until I recover the art of speech. "I do want to care," I repeat slowly, trying to put conviction into each of five words. She wasn't going to last long, I knew, and I was going to make the time we had together meaningful.

"Good." She smiles gently, and there is a determined spark in her eyes. "Harry, this is what Dumbledore and I gave up everything for…please, please, do it right. Then everything will be right, I promise." Her tone is forceful again, and she finishes, "Dumbledore told me so."

I shake my head twice slowly; when I look up, my face is contorted with a mixture of fury and disbelief. Dumbledore…impossible and unthinkable. Another something falls out of my heart, and it is irreplaceable, despite what she said.

"I'll see you again, Harry." For a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, she turns around and waves once. Then the very mists blow away on the breeze, and she fades away altogether, leaving me with my eyes turned hungrily skyward. By Merlin's beard, I have just been reminded what true desire feels like, yet there is never anything I desire more than what has been taken away. I believe that all humans allow their minds to spin in this direction, all but the Dumbledores. Why do they alone possess the power of self-control?

And yet, to deny our own impulses is to deny the very thing that makes us human… *

My head pounds with the enormity of paradoxical situations; it seems that the war is a paradox initiated by those who do not understand the intrinsic balance of life. Voldemort has no regard for life whatsoever, and that will be his downfall. I insist of it.

A foot, then another, staggers back into the cabin, where I sit on the hard bunk bed tucked against a wall. They become rooted to the dusty wooden floor, rooted stiff as I replay in my mind her gentle voice and then…

Then I cannot think any more, for in the next moment, nothing remains. A furious presence rips my heart to shreds, so slowly and painfully it is. And I ask myself, why am I the one?

Why am I the one destined to save the world, and why am I the one who will lose all? Why do I have no chance at a normal, quiet, peaceful life?

Why must I be magical?

Gasping for breath, I lean against the wall, and quickly, carefully, retract the last question. If it weren't for magic…well, I hate to think of all those possibilities. But magic makes things harder, it is undeniable. Just as current situations force me into reading long, outdated Latin and literature.

And from all that I have drawn a single conclusion: What is to come, will come. Nothing I can do will stop it. 

Funny how completely neutral thoughts like these can calm a man down sometimes.

When I am finished, I know where I am going now; there is comfort in knowledge and confidence. And I know that she will be there with me, but everyone else will come soon, yet hopefully, not too soon. 

I hope that I will be able to tell her.

I came, I saw, I conquered.

AN: Bleh, I really don't like Harry much, and I'm not great at writing from his point of view either…anyway, leave a review, please? I worked on this one-shot for a while since I was getting annoyed with my three *gasp***** long stories, so that's why they haven't been updated.

New AN: Thanks to the two reviewers. I updated to fix a few grammar mistakes and to give credit to that line with the asterisk after it…enjoy.

* Quote by Mouse from _The Matrix_

L8er,

-cybErdrAgOn****


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